


Reciprocity

by st_aurafina



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: ALL the issues, Boundary Issues, Communication Issues, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 08:38:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18825097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina
Summary: It's pretty clear to Fusco that he has a better grip on how relationships work than John. This is frankly terrifying.





	1. Shots Fired

**Author's Note:**

  * For [livenudebigfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/gifts).



> Thank you to my two awesome betas.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's possible Fusco has overstepped here.

The precinct has a vaccination program, and Fusco always puts his name down for it. He could go get one on his own, but that takes time and energy, neither of which he has to spare. So when the posters go up reminding them to have their flu shots, he puts his name down on the list. Then, with barely an afterthought, he adds John's underneath. Superman here probably has a blue ribbon healthcare budget thanks to Finch, and let's face it, the man needs it; he catches bullets like a fridge catches magnets. But vaccines are a whole other thing, a routine thing, and routine isn't exactly the way that any of his new, fun family of whack-jobs function. 

Later that night while he's waiting at the bottom of a fire escape, he briefly wonders if he should have mentioned it to John, or if he's over-stepped a boundary. Then John rockets down the stairs four at a time and a little bit on fire. 

"Meth lab?" Fusco asks, and the thought slips away, between beating out any obvious flames and getting John off the scene before the real cops arrive.

"Not any more," John says, a little out of breath, while embers drift down from the fifth floor. 

"Well, the building's clear," Fusco says, pushing John towards the car that's idling curbside. "You should see the scratch one woman's cat gave me. I come down with septicaemia, I expect Glasses to back me up with the medics, since I'm technically off the job." 

In the car, a couple of blocks distant, Fusco keeps one ear on the dispatch while he checks John over for burns worse than a superficial flash fry. He grips John's chin and checks his face and hair, then pats his arms down, hissing when his own fingers brush still-smouldering wool. 

"Get out and take that thing off," he says, and leans across John to open the passenger door. "You're gonna stink up the upholstery." Then, because he's a soft-touch, he gets out too, peels the coat off John's shoulders and drops it on the ground to stomp it a bit. Big man looks intact underneath; guess it pays to have a billionaire dress you in the expensive less-flammable fibres. Fusco would probably have gone up like a sparkler, doing whatever it was John was doing up there. 

John just stands there, lets him fuss, a weird little grin on his face. He's still breathing a little heavy. 

"You know, you're lucky I trust you to be the good guy," says Fusco. "You're as high as your garden variety arsonist right now." 

John makes a sound, the soft huff that means he's laughing, and then he slips his hand to the back of Fusco's skull and kisses him. It's quick, and from the street, it's perceivably a friendly, jocular kind of embrace, but Fusco knows John's mouth was open, and that John is quivering with exhilaration at having pulled some kid's ass literally out of the fire tonight. Fusco runs a finger along John's jaw just for a moment. John doesn't let himself feel joy often, and it's always amazing when Fusco gets to see it too. 

It's still kind of new, this thing between them. Fusco hasn't found the words for it yet – is it a relationship? Are they boyfriends? What does John call them, in his head? The one thing he is sure of is that it's good – good for John, good for Fusco. He doesn't quite believe it yet, not one hundred per cent of the time, anyway. That John would trust him – that John would need him? That's really hard to wrap your mind around, let alone the idea that John would reciprocate, should Fusco need someone to lean on. 

All of this should be freaking him out, but honestly, he doesn't care. Making sure John is good, is taking care of himself, that Fusco is doing right by him? So much more important. He blew his marriage by being lazy about the emotional stuff; he's not letting that happen again. 

(In the mornings, when he's telling himself that everything he starts inevitably dwindles away to nothing, he remembers Carter. Fusco might think he's a loser, but there's no way he can convince himself that she did. He had her back. She trusted him. Heading into what might be an actual relationship, Fusco finds that trust talismanic.) 

The reminder texts for the vaccinations go out the day before. Fusco's phone dings at his desk and he notes his appointment down on his desk calendar, then keeps plowing through his paperwork. About an hour later, the list has worked its way down from F to R, and John's phone lights up. It has a different tone than when Glasses texts, Fusco notices. That's kind of cool; he should ask Lee to help him set that up. He sniggers, weighing up the comedic value of the slide whistle versus a never-ending boingggggg for when Tall, Dark and Serious texts. 

John reads the text, reads it again, then holds up his phone for Fusco to see the message. He gives the phone a little waggle. "This your idea, Lionel?" he says. 

"I put your name down, yeah," says Fusco. "What? You weren't going to? It's free. And convenient." He's about to go back to his keyboard when he notices that John is still staring at him, face disturbingly blank. You can't tell, sometimes, if that face means, "That was actually pretty clever, Lionel," or, "Come here so I can kill you without standing up."

It occurs to him that maybe the man has a legitimate phobia or something. It's possible. Fusco's seen weirder things. John might be fine with Sameen digging into his torso with a butter knife, but get the sweats at the thought of a hypodermic needle. 

"You don't have to," he starts to say, but John's already taking a call, probably from Finch, and then he's walking out the door without looking back. Off to commit crimes and save lives. Just your average day for Mr Amazing. 

He spends the rest of the day low-key panicking he's made a mistake. 

That night, he's leaving the precinct, headed for the parking garage, when a shiny new Jaguar, low and sleek and deep blue, pulls up to the curb. The purr of the engine is barely audible, just a rumble in Fusco's chest. The passenger door opens with an expensive little hiss-pop like a space shuttle venting. Inside, Fusco sees pale rich leather upholstery. When he leans back a little to peer inside, he sees John at the wheel. 

"You coming or not?" John is in the driver's seat, bathed in the soft ambient interior lighting. 

Fusco sighs, glances around to see if anyone has noticed, then slings his battered briefcase into the back. He slides into the seat and barely closes the door before John puts the thing in gear and zips back into traffic. 

He expects John to drive James Bond style: fast and accurate, but instead, he slots comfortably into place and does his time with all the other commuters. 

"Where'd you get this thing?" Fusco asks, after half an hour of creeping north out of the city. He keeps his hands on his thighs, because his palms are damp and he's afraid to touch the cream-coloured upholstery. He's pretty sure he'll leave a mark. 

John drives for a while as if Fusco hadn't spoken. The traffic is thinning out now, and they're finally moving at a speed faster than Fusco can walk. Fusco turns a little sideways to watch John as he drives; he's got that blank-faced killer thing happening, and that's never good. John's knuckles are white on the weird little leather-covered steering wheel.

"You okay?" Fusco says. With a normal person, Fusco would be inclined to reach out and touch them, find a way to give them physical comfort, but he doesn't want to lose a finger. He and John, they've gotta figure that out, the way they can be with each other when it's not either grabby sex or workplace banter. 

The extended silence is starting to creep him out. Fusco doesn't do well with mind games, and he always seems to end up with people who use them as a weapon in an argument. Actually, the more he thinks about it, the more this reminds him of those fights he had with his wife towards the end, the ones where she shut down every argument with stony silence. Fusco's not making excuses for himself here, he fought as dirty as she did, but the silent treatment still hits a nerve. 

"Are we fighting? Did you boost someone's Jaguar for… what? So we can sit here like a sad married couple and not talk about it?"

John turns the wheel suddenly, and there's the James Bond driving Fusco was expecting. He slides the car through an impossibly small gap between a truck and an SUV, zips onto an exit ramp and down into a side road. The whole time, the Jaguar clings to the road as if magnetised, even though the acceleration pushes Fusco back in his seat, rollercoaster-style

The car kicks up a little spray of gravel as it comes to a halt, then John pushes himself out of the car and stalks off into the dimming light. Fusco follows, but more cautiously. This is a prime piece of real estate for suburban drug deals and spur of the moment murders. He's not worried for his safety – he's armed, John's almost certainly over-armed – but habit makes him careful. Especially when Tall, Dark and Kinda Weird Tonight is obviously not at his best. 

"I'm coming up behind you, so don't punch me," he says, before he reaches for John's elbow. John doesn't resist, though, he lets Fusco reel him in until they're inches apart. It doesn't feel right to put his arms around John, but Fusco doesn't want to let go, either, so he stands there, awkwardly holding John by the elbows. It helps a little that he can see John is awkward too. It's not an expression he's used to seeing on John's face, and that's actually reassuring. This is weird for both of them, Fusco realises. They're both trying to figure out where they stand, how they work. 

The side road isn't lit – another vote for it as the local dealer's venue of choice – but there's enough cool blue light washing down from the highway that Fusco can see John's breath in soft little clouds. 

"Did I overstep, with the flu shot?" It's pretty clear suddenly to Fusco that he's got a better grip on how relationships (relationships!) work than John. It's frankly terrifying.

John lets out a long, slow breath. "Yeah," he says, finally. "Maybe a bit." 

Fusco nods. "Okay, got it. Sorry." It's weird how little apologising hurts; in the divorce, he can remember sticking to his guns for the fucking principle of it even when he knew he was wrong. Maybe he's gotten a little wiser in his old age. That strikes him as hilarious, and he can't stop a little guffaw escaping. 

"You laughing at me, Lionel?" John is all sarcasm again, and that's great. John only pokes fun when things are okay. 

"I'm laughing at both of us, bozo." Fusco steps in a little closer now, because he's sure John isn't going to shatter or kill him in some esoteric way. What felt awkward before is natural now. His hands find their places easily: one on John's hip, one caught in the lapel of his coat. "I mean, check us out: I'm stomping all over you and mashing our calendars together. And you stole a Jaguar to intimidate me. Or impress me, I'm not sure yet." 

John tips his head forward enough that their foreheads brush. Even with the roar of traffic less than ten feet away, it's quiet in this little alcove of scrubby, exhaust-poisoned trees and patchy grass. When John speaks, the words puff warm against Fusco's cheek. 

"Did it impress you?" 

Fusco laughs out loud this time. "Yeah. I don't know whether to kiss you or arrest you. Status quo for us, I guess…" but then John is kissing him, and it's good. It's really good, and Fusco doesn't have much air left for thinking, not for a bit. 

Fusco has a good internal timer for how long two guys can stand kissing in a patch of scrub before Highway Patrol comes to bust them for being queer in public, and they've got time. Besides, Wonderboy's just loosening up. Fusco pushes his thumbs into John's shoulder blades to smooth the tension away as they kiss. Also, John kisses like – Fusco doesn't have many metaphors for it – like the rest of the world vanished for a minute: eyes closed, mouth open, matching Fusco's movements to his own. 

It surprises Fusco every time, how much of himself John puts into this thing they have. He'd expect John to be as guarded and cynical about intimacy as he is about everything else except saving lives. Huh. Maybe that's what this thing is for John. A life preserver, something to keep him tethered to the real world. Then John runs a fingertip along the edge of Fusco's ear, brushes the soft skin just above his jaw, and Jesus. Fusco's hard in public in a way he hasn't known since adolescence.

John notices too, nudges a leg between Fusco's, puts his thigh in just the right place for it to feel real good. Okay, thinks Fusco. That's where I'm drawing the line on public sex. 

"Come on, Romeo," he says, stepping away. "I don't wanna get booked in the suburbs with my pants round my ankles." He catches John's hand before they separate, though, and squeezes it. 

As they're walking back to the ridiculous car, John tosses the keys to Fusco. "You should drive it back. It's an experience." 

Fusco weighs the keys up; even the fob on the ring seems impossibly expensive, all crystal and silver and gleaming. "The owner called it in yet? I don't know if my reputation can survive being pulled over in a stolen car." 

"Doubt he got out of the handcuffs yet," John says. "By now I'm starting to think he enjoys them." 

Fusco can sense John's laughter more than he can hear it, transmitted through their interlocked fingers. His mind maps out the expression he can't see on John's face: a little twitch at the corner of his mouth, eyes creasing just a bit. 

Then he thinks about what John actually said. Handcuffs. "Wait – did you take this thing off Leon?" 

"Easy as stealing candy from a baby," John says. He sounds stupidly pleased with himself now, because he's given Fusco this silly, fun gift that doesn't really matter. 

Well. That's a whole other story. He spins the keys on his finger with what he tells himself is dapper élan. "Okay then," he says, and now he's itching to slide in behind that stupid little leather-wrapped wheel. "Let's hit the road." 

The next day, Fusco stands in the line leading up to the little curtained-off area in the cafeteria and waits to get his shot. He feels John step into the line just behind him, even though they don't touch. Guess all those years of being lurked on taught him a thing or two, although now instead of sinking fear and guilt Fusco has a little tingle of anticipation when John looms. The hair on the back of his neck prickles like John just breathed on it, warm and close, even though John is standing scrupulously clear. 

"You didn't have to – I overstepped," Fusco says, though the camaraderie adds to the glow. 

"Well, Lionel, maybe I just don't want to get the flu." John's voice floats over Fusco's shoulder, and damn, it's making Fusco remember last night, when they got back to John's place, when John put his arms around Fusco and walked him to the bed. He takes a few deep breaths, imagines tax returns and cold leftovers until his heart calms the fuck down. 

It's his turn behind the curtain next, and he shrugs out of his jacket, and undoes his cuff so he can roll up his sleeve. The shot is nothing – those things never bother Fusco much – but he loiters while John gets his, just in case he has that phobia thing. Not because John can't handle it, but because being there will give John a little bulwark to keep his shit together. John's tough-guy thing works better when he's got Fusco there to badger, after all. 

John comes out from behind the curtain, rolling his sleeve back down and buttoning the cuff. Fusco passes him a lollipop, freshly peeled so he can't just shove it in his pocket. 

John takes it automatically, stares at it like he's never seen one before, and back at Fusco, who has a stick tucked in the corner of his mouth. For a moment, Fusco thinks, "Oh, shit, I overstepped again." 

Then John opens his mouth and slides the little oval in over his tongue. It's not salacious, at least, not to anyone who doesn't know John well, but it's enough to set Fusco's heart ticking away again like a horny little cuckoo clock. John raises his eyebrows at Fusco, daring him to say something, but Fusco just laughs and heads back to his desk. 

It's no blue Jaguar, Fusco will freely admit, but he feels good about it nonetheless.


	2. Life Support

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first thing Fusco knows about the accident is the phone call from his ex.

The first thing he knows about the accident is the phone call from his ex, late in the afternoon while he's still at the precinct.

"We're in the hospital – he's fine. They're saying he's going to be fine."

Fusco knows the sound of panic in his wife's voice, and it's always about Lee. Fusco is on his feet, grabbing random stuff and pushing it into his briefcase without thinking, with the phone still pressed to his ear. "I'm coming," he says. "I'll be there." 

John's out doing whatever John does when he's not pretending to be a cop, and that's good. Better than him seeing Fusco lose his shit, anyway. Better than Fusco spending energy not losing his shit so that John doesn't get uncomfortable. If this is something bad – and wow, can his mind supply an endless panorama of very bad things – Fusco's going to need that energy for Lee and his wife. 

When he checks in at the hospital, they've moved Lee through the ER and into Paediatrics, which is probably a good sign, but he's still clenched up inside when he steps out of the elevator. He's out of breath when the nurse at the desk points him towards a room, but now that he's here, he can see the shape of Anita's hair through one of the glass walls. A wash of relief runs down his spine because now he knows Lee's still alive. 

Lee's lying in the bed asleep, and, horribly, he's hooked up to an IV and one of those things clipped onto his finger that shows his pulse rate on a screen. He looks smaller than he did last weekend, so much smaller that Fusco thinks for a minute that he's come to the wrong room.

Then Anita sees him, and there's an awkward moment when she almost pushes out of her chair to hug him. Fusco knows how she feels. There's a part of him that wants to gather his family up and escape somewhere that the world can't hurt either of them, then he remembers that he doesn't have the right. 

Anita does reach for him, for his hand, at least, and gives it a squeeze then lets it go. "He got hit at hockey," she says. "He blacked out and when he woke up he was not okay, vomiting and really out of it. Coach called; I got there just as they were putting him into the ambulance." 

Jesus. Fusco thinks of Lee, taking himself to practice on his own because both his parents work, and then Anita taking that call at her work, one step more terrifying than the call she made to Fusco. "What'd the doctor say?" he asks. 

"They think it's just a concussion," says Anita. "He's been awake a couple of times since, but because he's so out of it, they want to keep him in overnight. Maybe do another MRI tomorrow." 

Fusco nods, understanding about half the words, still hovering beside Anita's chair, unsure which part of his son he can safely touch since she's got Lee's fingers wrapped up in her own. 

Someone clears their throat at the doorway, and Fusco jumps, hand flying to his holster, but it's just that guy. Daniel. Call-Me-Dan. The one with the moustache, the one Anita's been seeing for about a year. 

"Hey, Lionel," says Call-Me-Dan, like this is a barbecue or some shit. He's holding two paper cups of coffee. "Anita tell you the doctor says he's going to be fine? That's good." 

"Yeah, great news." Fusco hates that proprietary note in the asshole's voice, hates the feeling that he's suddenly the stranger here. He hates it so much his fist starts to curl into itself and he jams it into his pocket so he doesn't make things worse. Instead, he walks around the bed to Lee's other side. 

That's the side with the IV in, so he can't hold Lee's hand. He settles for wrapping his fingers round the kid's ankle instead. Poor Lee's got that look of a boxer, the shadows round his eyes promising spectacular bruising over the next couple of days.

A few hours go by that way: him and Anita and asshole Call-Me-Dan doing an awkward dance in a too-small room with Lee in the giant bed between them. Fusco gets to talk to him, at least, when he blinks himself awake and stares around the room in confusion. 

"Dad?" Lee sounds as high as a kite. He blinks, tries to focus, then swipes his arm across his eyes. He stops, astounded at the trail of tubing that drags along with it.

Fusco takes his hand gently, puts it down beside him so he doesn't pull out the IV. "I'm here, buddy." 

"I heard your voice," Lee says. "I thought I was dreaming." 

"You might have been, kiddo. You got a bump on your head. Do you remember?" Fusco gives Anita a crooked grin. He's feeling high too, now, because Lee sounds like Lee, and maybe it's going to be okay. 

Then Call-Me-Dan steps between them, blocks Fusco's view of his wife, like this is some fucking competition, like he's even on the same playing field as Lee's biological parents, and anger rises up in Fusco's throat like bile. Like jealousy even rates in this situation. Like this has anything the fuck to do with his relationship with Anita. Fusco knows he's about to blow it, he's about to spit something venomous at the man, when he knows better, when he and Anita have talked this dating thing out in detail so it doesn't mess Lee up. 

There's a soft rap on the doorframe, and John's there, leaning into the room. His jacket has swung open and the badge sits prominent on his belt, right there next to his gun. This is nothing out of the ordinary; this is just a cop checking in on his partner, after all. Still, the room goes silent, responding to that quiet vibe John gives off, the one that says real subtle that he can kill everyone in the room without raising a sweat. 

"Sorry to interrupt," John says. "The LT told me you had to rush in, Fusco. I wanted to check if you need anything." He nods politely at Anita, who he's never met, but they both know who the other is, theoretically. He ignores Call-Me-Dan with just the right amount of scathing disregard. It's petty, it's so fucking petty, but it cools the fire in Fusco's gorge enough that he's not going to ruin this situation with a fight. 

"Hey, John," Lee says, his voice blurry. Lee's met John, on the few occasions Fusco's picked him up from practice in the car they're sharing, and once when John gate-crashed Fusco's weekend with an urgent whatever that Fusco bounced the hell right on to Carter's desk. 

John grins, goofy and harmless, though that's not the vibe he's emanating into the room. "Hey kid," he says. "Heard you caught the puck with your head. Must be getting good and tough like your dad's."

Lee laughs and poorly hides his preen at the compliment. 

"Gimme a minute to sort out work stuff?" Fusco says to Anita, and she nods, her focus right back on Lee. Call-Me-Dan has retreated behind her chair, presumably to tuck his turkey beak under his wing. 

Fusco takes the chance to walk a little way down the corridor. "How long have you been standing there?" he says, though he's relieved, so relieved that someone saw what was about to happen and made him stop. 

"Not that long." John leans a shoulder on the wall beside him, so they're talking real close, close enough that warmth radiates from John's body to his. "I didn't want to interrupt, then you looked like you needed some space." 

Fusco takes a few deep breaths, keeps his eyes on the black of John's lapels so he doesn't have to meet anyone's gaze. "He's going to be okay," he says, and he knows John picks up what he really means: Jesus, what if he wasn't fine, what if this was bad, what the hell would I do if something happened to my kid?

John puts a hand on Fusco's shoulder, the kind of comforting grip that nobody would look askance at in a hospital. To Fusco, it's as if the gravity just came on, or the elevator stopped dropping. 

"He's going to be fine," John says, and Fusco doesn't have to be a spy to pick up the coded message there: If Lee wasn't okay, if you had to go into battle for the kid? I'm here. Whatever happens, you won't go through it alone.


	3. Over Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first place they fucked was at Fusco's place, and they nearly broke the bed.

The first place they fucked was at Fusco's place, and they nearly broke the bed. To be fair, they'd been fighting – Fusco can't remember why but it was probably stupid – when Fusco, infuriated beyond his normal level of caution around John, gave him an almighty shove in the chest. It was one of the few times he's ever caught John off-balance, which says a lot about the undercurrents of the fight. John thumped into the wall, left a little dent in the plaster that was still there today, then ricocheted back towards Fusco. Fusco had braced for one of those lightning fast punches to the gut or the kidney. Instead, John put his palms on either side of Fusco's face, and Fusco thought, horrified, "Shit, he's gonna break my neck," which made it extra surprising to have John's tongue in his mouth. 

The second time, John had been kind of messed up by the first time, like there was some way that he'd forced Fusco into it. As if Fusco would let him do that. As if John would let himself do that. They'd still fought over it, and this time, Wonderboy was so caught up apologising for the terrible thing he thought he'd done that Fusco got in him in a headlock. He held on tight, got a leg crooked over John's thigh and managed to topple the two of them, so they folded to the ground: John on both knees and Fusco behind him on one. 

"Listen, you idiot," Fusco had said, "I'm no fragile flower, got it? It was good. And I know you wouldn't hurt me, not for real." This last thing seemed to mess John up even more: he made a kind of animal moan, and started to struggle.

So, after a few seconds more of thrashing, Fusco gave up on reason and just leaned over John's shoulder to kiss him. As kisses went, it was messy and off-centre, mostly catching the side of John's mouth, but John closed his eyes like Sleeping Fucking Beauty, like Fusco had kissed him back to sleep. Then John had him by the arms, and he was kissing Fusco as if that's where he got his oxygen, and yeah. That was the second time. 

Fusco thinks he lost count around the time that Bear felt okay to jump up on the bed after they'd finished tussling. It's not so bad, as long as Bear keeps to the end of the bed, but Fusco has woken up spooned against John only to discover that John is spooned against Bear. 

"I thought you'd be all intense discipline with the dog," he says, the first time he wakes up to Bear under the covers. "All those Dutch commands." 

John nuzzles his face against Bear's lovingly, and Bear returns the embrace with long stripes of dog spit. "Nights are cold in the desert, Lionel. You don't say no to a warm body."

So, that's one of the unexpected things about sleeping with Tall, Dark and Deadly: he's goofy when he lets his guard down. 

Still, they had stuff to work out. Trust issues on Fusco's part – he waited a long time for John to throw the punchline to this joke, that he'd want to be with Fusco like that. And John, well, that guy sure has some problems with boundaries. They're still thrashing those out now. 

Sunday morning, Fusco lies in John's stupidly huge bed and stretches as the kinks in his back click and let go, creaks his knees into movement after so long lying still. John's out, running or at the gym doing whatever it takes for a body his age to be able to jump out of a fourth floor window, land on a car, and walk away. John comes and goes without explanation a lot. Fusco is getting used to waking up to an unexpectedly empty bed, at his own place or here. He's less used to the times he goes to sleep alone and wakes up in John's arms, but he hasn't shot anyone yet.

When John rockets through that door – presuming Glasses doesn't divert him onto a mystery mission – he's going to be sweaty and horny, and soon after that, hungry. Fusco hauls himself out of the bed and starts on setting up breakfast. John's kitchen is batshit, the kind of thing you see on a cooking show, wood surfaces and stainless steel appliances with buttons that do only God knows what. Fusco loves cooking at John's place, for the sheer luxury of bench space. And the eight gas burners. He's working on properly seasoning John's pristine skillet, which means bacon, and then more bacon. 

There's a frittata all mixed and ready to go when John gets back from his run. Fusco covers the bowl with a dishtowel just before John spins him and kisses him against the counter, fingers in Fusco's hair, pulling him upwards so he's standing on tiptoes to meet John's lips. 

Fusco tastes salt on John's skin, feels stubble rasp against his face, and loses his mind for a bit. Kissing John, touching John? Really good, amazing even, but even better are the noises John makes when Fusco puts hands on him, the way he holds on to Fusco's body, and the beautiful, desperate want on his face. 

Fusco had ideas before all this, about men, about the way he felt about men, but they were vague, occasional masturbatory concepts that never coalesced into anything more solid than jacking off on his own in the shower. Not that he was screwed up about it – he knew what was right in his own head, he knew he loved his wife, he was loyal to his wife, and those fantasies were just that. But if he'd ever thought that he would be with a guy, if he ever entertained the idea of physical stuff, it was always a first person scenario, all about Fusco's experience. And he's learned fast that there's nothing in his mental spankbank that could possibly match the insanely erotic reality of making John feel good. 

John really likes to feel good.

Not that Fusco's denying his own pleasure here, he likes sex, he likes to come. He's actually pretty keen on the ass-fucking thing, which was a surprise, given the hang-ups society has about things homosexual. Makes Fusco wonder sometimes just what's lurking in the back of everyone else's minds.

It's just – touching John, making him moan, it's like. It's like driving Leon's Jaguar. The man purrs. Fusco peels off John's shirt, gets his fingertips against John's skin still flushed pink from his run, strokes his chest, thumbs a nipple, and yeah. That's Fusco's super deadly assassin right there, mouth open, panting, reaching for Fusco, begging wordlessly for more. 

They wrestle a bit, shed clothes all the way to the bed. Fusco's not sure which way they're heading until John starts to slow down, lets Fusco pin his shoulders to the bed with his bodyweight. Okay, that's how we do today, Fusco thinks. It happens sometimes, when the heft of the stuff in John's past slams him, or the person they tried to save didn't make it. 

Fusco sits astride John's body, holds his hands in his own, kisses the knuckles where they've split and scabbed up again. "It's all right, buddy," he says. He puts John's fingers to the bedhead, waits till they're holding on to the iron frame. "You stay still, I got you." 

In the middle of it, when Fusco's found his rhythm, found the angle that drives those little whimpers out of John's mouth, it's so good. Fusco leans his weight against John's thighs so they're bent right back, throws himself into each thrust, builds it and builds it. He loves that he knows what works for John, what works for him. John watches him, eyes dreamy and half closed, so much of him relaxed and easy now, except his cock, which is hot and hard in Fusco's palm. When Fusco comes, it's with his mouth on John's neck, John's cock sticky against his belly, and John, for the moment, all his. 

Afterwards, John sleeps a bit more, the two of them plastered together, Fusco around John, John turned face down into the pillows. Fusco heaves the blankets up over them as they cool down. When John's phone lights up, Fusco throws one of the stupid decorative cushions over it, just for a little bit longer. (Huh, what do you know, they have a purpose after all.) Whoever Glasses is sending John after, whatever crisis they're in, it will go all the better for John having this moment of peace. And a good breakfast. 

They're both clean and dressed by the time the frittata comes out of the oven. John is eternally amazed at food coming from his own kitchen. It's stupidly endearing. Makes Fusco feel like a magician or something. 

"You need help with this one?" Fusco asks, nodding towards the phone that John has beside his plate, keeps tapping messages on between mouthfuls of eggs. "I got nothing but paperwork to catch up on." Lee's at his mom's this weekend, and it helps to have a lot to do, now that Fusco's tolerance of Call-Me-Dan is at an all time low. 

He's expecting the usual brush-off that he gets with Finch and John's little side-projects. He doesn't love it, but when you're sleeping with one half of the Dynamic Duo (Wait, does that make Finch Robin?), you gotta make compromises. So he keeps his question light and easy, lets John know that someone has his back if he needs it. Today's not the day for that fight, though it is coming. These days, Fusco will only go so far into a thing without answers. 

This time, though, he sees John consider it. "I could use another pair of eyes on these two," he says, and sends a file to Fusco's phone. 

Fusco puts on his reading glasses, downs the last of his coffee – he fucking loves that Rolls Royce pod machine thing – and reads the file while John collects up the dishes, takes them over to the counter. He realises just before John puts the dishwasher on that the stupid mook has put the skillet in with the plates, and leaps up to stop a terrible, terrible accident. 

"Didn't realise you were so passionate about cookware, Lionel," John says, watching Fusco ease the thing out of the dishwasher, lovingly wipe it down with rock salt and paper towel. 

Fusco dries the skillet tenderly and hangs it up on the wall with all the useless copper dishes. "I won't tell you how to kill someone with it, and you don't tell me how to keep it non-stick, deal?" 

At the door, John grabs his coat, passes Fusco's over to him. "Deal," he says, and the two of them are out and away, ready to save lives.


End file.
